I wanted to share this poem by W. H. Auden. You might recognize him as the author of the poem John Hannah recited in Four Weddings and a Funeral. This one caught my eye on one of the poetry sites I frequent- sometimes they post an excerpt of a classic to lure people in on the home page. But as I was reading through it, it really struck me today. You know the phrase "arresting image"? It's something that makes you stop what you're doing and pay attention. That's how I feel about the following passage:
But all the clocks in the city
Began to whirr and chime:
'O let not Time deceive you,
You cannot conquer Time.
'In the burrows of the Nightmare
Where Justice naked is,
Time watches from the shadow
And coughs when you would kiss.
'O plunge your hands in water,
Plunge them in up to the wrist;
Stare, stare in the basin
And wonder what you've missed.
Here is the poem in its entirety. Maybe it will strike you, too.
As I Walked Out One Evening
As I walked out one evening,
Walking down Bristol Street,
The crowds upon the pavement
Were fields of harvest wheat.
And down by the brimming river
I heard a lover sing
Under an arch of the railway:
'Love has no ending.
'I'll love you, dear, I'll love you
Till China and Africa meet,
And the river jumps over the mountain
And the salmon sing in the street,
'I'll love you till the ocean
Is folded and hung up to dry
And the seven stars go squawking
Like geese about the sky.
'The years shall run like rabbits,
For in my arms I hold
The Flower of the Ages,
And the first love of the world.'
But all the clocks in the city
Began to whirr and chime:
'O let not Time deceive you,
You cannot conquer Time.
'In the burrows of the Nightmare
Where Justice naked is,
Time watches from the shadow
And coughs when you would kiss.
'In headaches and in worry
Vaguely life leaks away,
And Time will have his fancy
To-morrow or to-day.
'Into many a green valley
Drifts the appalling snow;
Time breaks the threaded dances
And the diver's brilliant bow.
'O plunge your hands in water,
Plunge them in up to the wrist;
Stare, stare in the basin
And wonder what you've missed.
'The glacier knocks in the cupboard,
The desert sighs in the bed,
And the crack in the tea-cup opens
A lane to the land of the dead.
'Where the beggars raffle the banknotes
And the Giant is enchanting to Jack,
And the Lily-white Boy is a Roarer,
And Jill goes down on her back.
'O look, look in the mirror,
O look in your distress:
Life remains a blessing
Although you cannot bless.
'O stand, stand at the window
As the tears scald and start;
You shall love your crooked neighbour
With your crooked heart.'
It was late, late in the evening,
The lovers they were gone;
The clocks had ceased their chiming,
And the deep river ran on.
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
Monday, February 28, 2011
Monday, February 14, 2011
Valentine's Day: brought to you by angst
The Look
Strephon kissed me in the spring,
Robin in the fall,
But Colin only looked at me
And never kissed at all.
Strephon's kiss was lost in jest,
Robin's lost in play,
But the kiss in Colin's eyes
Haunts me night and day.
-Sara Teasdale
(yet another poet who killed herself)
Strephon kissed me in the spring,
Robin in the fall,
But Colin only looked at me
And never kissed at all.
Strephon's kiss was lost in jest,
Robin's lost in play,
But the kiss in Colin's eyes
Haunts me night and day.
-Sara Teasdale
(yet another poet who killed herself)
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Mi amore
I have an obsession with pasta. It's not at all something I've recently discovered. I'm not having a whiny, middle-aged woman-who-takes-a-gap-year Italian food renaissance, My passion for pasta has always been and always will be, to the point where I first considered writing a blog about spaghetti long before I even entertained the idea of writing about poetry.
Pasta and I go way back to a time when I was a toddler and it was a pastina. My mother used to coax me with a mixture of pastina and egg when I refused all other food, and to this day it is still my go-to dish when I'm sick. The pasta's and my relationship escalated last year when I was no longer satisfied with simply emptying a box of linguine into boiling water. I wanted to get my hands dirty. So I bought a $40 pasta-maker at Bed, Bath & Beyond, and, armed with a book of recipes from Mom, I hand-cranked my first batch of noodles. Well. What can I say that will convince you to live a life of only homemade spaghetti? That it is like nothing else in the world? That angels and Etta James sang? That it really is the easiest thing to do and cooks up in about 2 minutes? That true pasta in its plainest form actually tastes rich and eggy and not at all like cardboard?
Now that I have found gastronomic bliss with my pasta maker, I am continuing to build our relationship. I have discovered two things in the last month, during which I made a Christmas and a New Year's batch:
1) Using Italian "00" flour really does make a difference and only costs about $3 if you can find it. It is so finely ground, it is like working with talcum powder.
2) Instead of relying on a food processor to mix the dough, make an old-fashioned well out of the flour, put the eggs and olive oil in the middle and mix it up yourself. Ten minutes of kneading dough will certainly help you feel less guilty about that big bowl of fettuccine you're about to eat.
And for those of you who are reading this and thinking, when did I sign up for a cooking blog? I say, come over and I'll show you what all the fuss is about.
Pumpernickel
Monday mornings Grandma rose an hour early to make rye,
onion & challah, but it was pumpernickel she broke her hands for,
pumpernickel that demanded cornmeal, ripe caraway, mashed potatoes
& several Old Testament stories about patience & fortitude & for
which she cursed in five languages if it didn’t pop out fat
as an apple-cheeked peasant bride. But bread, after all,
is only bread & who has time to fuss all day & end up
with a dead heart if it flops? Why bother? I’ll tell you why.
For the moment when the steam curls off the black crust like a strip
of pure sunlight & the hard oily flesh breaks open like a poem
pulling out of its own stubborn complexity a single glistening truth
& who can help but wonder at the mystery of the human heart when you
hold a slice up to the light in all its absurd splendor & I tell you
we must risk everything for the raw recipe of our passion.
-Philip Schultz
Pasta and I go way back to a time when I was a toddler and it was a pastina. My mother used to coax me with a mixture of pastina and egg when I refused all other food, and to this day it is still my go-to dish when I'm sick. The pasta's and my relationship escalated last year when I was no longer satisfied with simply emptying a box of linguine into boiling water. I wanted to get my hands dirty. So I bought a $40 pasta-maker at Bed, Bath & Beyond, and, armed with a book of recipes from Mom, I hand-cranked my first batch of noodles. Well. What can I say that will convince you to live a life of only homemade spaghetti? That it is like nothing else in the world? That angels and Etta James sang? That it really is the easiest thing to do and cooks up in about 2 minutes? That true pasta in its plainest form actually tastes rich and eggy and not at all like cardboard?
Now that I have found gastronomic bliss with my pasta maker, I am continuing to build our relationship. I have discovered two things in the last month, during which I made a Christmas and a New Year's batch:
1) Using Italian "00" flour really does make a difference and only costs about $3 if you can find it. It is so finely ground, it is like working with talcum powder.
2) Instead of relying on a food processor to mix the dough, make an old-fashioned well out of the flour, put the eggs and olive oil in the middle and mix it up yourself. Ten minutes of kneading dough will certainly help you feel less guilty about that big bowl of fettuccine you're about to eat.
And for those of you who are reading this and thinking, when did I sign up for a cooking blog? I say, come over and I'll show you what all the fuss is about.
Pumpernickel
Monday mornings Grandma rose an hour early to make rye,
onion & challah, but it was pumpernickel she broke her hands for,
pumpernickel that demanded cornmeal, ripe caraway, mashed potatoes
& several Old Testament stories about patience & fortitude & for
which she cursed in five languages if it didn’t pop out fat
as an apple-cheeked peasant bride. But bread, after all,
is only bread & who has time to fuss all day & end up
with a dead heart if it flops? Why bother? I’ll tell you why.
For the moment when the steam curls off the black crust like a strip
of pure sunlight & the hard oily flesh breaks open like a poem
pulling out of its own stubborn complexity a single glistening truth
& who can help but wonder at the mystery of the human heart when you
hold a slice up to the light in all its absurd splendor & I tell you
we must risk everything for the raw recipe of our passion.
-Philip Schultz
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Loaded for Bhaer
I was watching the 1949 version of Little Women this weekend, and I suddenly realized that every adaptation of the book- nay, even the very book itself- infuriates me. The problem is Jo. She's a great character whom a lot of girls look up to: a headstrong, outspoken writer who struggles against society's expectations of her to get married and stay home and knit. Clearly she is a representation of the author, Louisa May Alcott.
In case you are unfamiliar with the plot, Jo is best friends with "Laurie" Lawrence. His character is developed as charming, handsome, fun, and basically the peas to Jo's carrots. Laurie loves Jo, and Alcott seems to be setting them up as the perfect match through most of the book. But in the second half, it becomes more and more clear that Jo does not feel the same about Laurie, until she finally rejects his marriage proposal and breaks his heart. She goes off to New York, hoping that it will give him time to get over her, and it's there that she meets the wretched Professor Bhaer.
Guess what. She ends up marrying old Bhaer. Oh, Louisa. We don't care about the Professor! He's middle-aged and always poorly cast in movies. He and Jo have a teacher-student relationship, and it's incredibly boring. She's fascinated by his thoughts on philosophy. She ends up darning his socks. In the movie, she sews a button on his coat for him. What happened to the unconventional young woman who rejected traditional domestic roles? Alcott herself ended up never marrying. Why not the same for her heroine who was so adamant in her rejection of Laurie that she probably would never marry?
Look, even if she had to marry old Square Bhaer, could we at least have gotten a more interesting, better developed sense of character? In a book that is 47 chapters long, Bhaersy only enters in number 34. Compare that to Laurie, who appears from chapter three onward, and you've got a lot to compensate for.
A Complaint
In case you are unfamiliar with the plot, Jo is best friends with "Laurie" Lawrence. His character is developed as charming, handsome, fun, and basically the peas to Jo's carrots. Laurie loves Jo, and Alcott seems to be setting them up as the perfect match through most of the book. But in the second half, it becomes more and more clear that Jo does not feel the same about Laurie, until she finally rejects his marriage proposal and breaks his heart. She goes off to New York, hoping that it will give him time to get over her, and it's there that she meets the wretched Professor Bhaer.
Guess what. She ends up marrying old Bhaer. Oh, Louisa. We don't care about the Professor! He's middle-aged and always poorly cast in movies. He and Jo have a teacher-student relationship, and it's incredibly boring. She's fascinated by his thoughts on philosophy. She ends up darning his socks. In the movie, she sews a button on his coat for him. What happened to the unconventional young woman who rejected traditional domestic roles? Alcott herself ended up never marrying. Why not the same for her heroine who was so adamant in her rejection of Laurie that she probably would never marry?
Look, even if she had to marry old Square Bhaer, could we at least have gotten a more interesting, better developed sense of character? In a book that is 47 chapters long, Bhaersy only enters in number 34. Compare that to Laurie, who appears from chapter three onward, and you've got a lot to compensate for.
A Complaint
There is a change—and I am poor;
Your love hath been, nor long ago,
A fountain at my fond heart's door,
Whose only business was to flow;
And flow it did; not taking heed
Of its own bounty, or my need.
What happy moments did I count!
Blest was I then all bliss above!
Now, for that consecrated fount
Of murmuring, sparkling, living love,
What have I? shall I dare to tell?
A comfortless and hidden well.
A well of love—it may be deep—
I trust it is,—and never dry:
What matter? if the waters sleep
In silence and obscurity.
—Such change, and at the very door
Of my fond heart, hath made me poor.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Blueblack and cracked
Tonight there is going to be a low of 39 degrees, and I am sitting here in my puffy jacket because there is no heat in my apartment. We're in the process of moving, so it's only a temporary arrangement. But in the mean time, I am so grateful for a little invention called the hot water bottle. The hot water bottle is ingenious in its simplicity. It's even better if you have an electric kettle to boil up hot water in a jiffy. You know how when you get into bed, it takes a few minutes for the chill to wear off the sheets? Not so with the hot water bottle! Just tuck it in while you change into your pajamas, brush your teeth, and then snuggle up beside it. Not only will you have the warmth from the bottle itself but the spot where it was sitting will remain cozy and hot. It's all you can do to not say, "Ahhhh," I promise you.
It's funny how it's not really necessary to improve upon some things. The guy who invented this rubber incarnation of the hot water bottle at the turn of the last century got it right. I had to look him up. His name is Slavoljub Eduard Penkala. Apparently he is the same guy who invented the mechanical pencil and the first solid-ink fountain pen. He had over 70 patents! Well done, Slavoljub. My chilly old bones thank you.
Speaking of cold, does anyone remember the following poem from high school English class? Right now I'm finding the "blueblack cold" easy to identify with- it's such a great description. It's taken for granted, but the simple act of getting up and facing that cold, starting the fire so his family can be warm, is a tremendous act of love by the father. It makes your heart ache as you realize along with the speaker what love is truly made of.
Those Winter Sundays
by Robert Hayden
Sundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.
I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he’d call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,
Speaking indifferently to him,
who had who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love’s austere and lonely offices?
It's funny how it's not really necessary to improve upon some things. The guy who invented this rubber incarnation of the hot water bottle at the turn of the last century got it right. I had to look him up. His name is Slavoljub Eduard Penkala. Apparently he is the same guy who invented the mechanical pencil and the first solid-ink fountain pen. He had over 70 patents! Well done, Slavoljub. My chilly old bones thank you.
Speaking of cold, does anyone remember the following poem from high school English class? Right now I'm finding the "blueblack cold" easy to identify with- it's such a great description. It's taken for granted, but the simple act of getting up and facing that cold, starting the fire so his family can be warm, is a tremendous act of love by the father. It makes your heart ache as you realize along with the speaker what love is truly made of.
Those Winter Sundays
by Robert Hayden
Sundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.
I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he’d call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,
Speaking indifferently to him,
who had who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love’s austere and lonely offices?
Friday, September 24, 2010
Bad poetry, or What I will do for money
I saw an ad on Craigslist for a card company that was looking for fresh poems for greeting and holiday cards. There was a whole submission process involved. It did seem to pay pretty well, so I went to their website to check out what kinds of poems made it onto their cards. You can probably imagine the sappy verses about love feeling like the sun on your face, cream-colored ponies and crisp apple strudel. But they said they wanted something new and different from what they had. I wasn't sure how to proceed.
Do I give them my best work? Really put forth an effort? I know you're supposed to try your best at everything you do, but I wasn't sure I wanted to give up ownership of something I was proud of. As a friend of mine who did some ghost writing put it, "I wrote the scene and then I thought, wow, that's pretty good. That may be the best scene I've ever written. I don't want this guy to put his name on my best scene. So I scaled it down a bit. And then I scaled it down again." Or something like that. I didn't write it down when he was talking to me.
So that's what I decided to do. I took some ideas that could turn into pretty decent poems, and I turned the volume waaaaaaay down.
Example (on love):
If you were a season,
you'd be the first day of summer.
If you were a city,
you'd be Paris in the spring.
If you were a holiday,
you'd be Christmas morning.
If you were a dream,
You'd be the one that came true.
I was pretty embarrassed by that, so I tempered it with this one (for encouragement):
Hero's Low
This is the part of the movie
when the hero can't see a way out.
His back is against the wall,
surrounded on all sides.
This is the point where he thinks
maybe I won't win the fight.
What if I give up, surrender?
Will it really be so bad?
But maybe the hero doesn't realize
all the people back home still believe in him.
They know he has a purpose.
All he has to do is steel himself,
and come out, guns blazing.
The cavalry is just over the ridge.
I didn't mind that one so much. Then I tried a Christmas poem:
I imagine coming home this Christmas,
turning down the block
and passing houses, brightly lit.
It is night. The street is silent,
the shopping over, the presents nestled
beneath the pine.
A wind stirs, prompting my excitement.
It swirls between the chimneys,
knocking snow to the white, pillowed ground.
I hum a carol as I walk up the pathway.
The smell of Christmas dinner in the air.
I move to ring the bell--
a delighted cry rings out.
Peering through the window,
there you all are,
gathered round the table,
piled high with the day's festivities.
I see your expressions of joy
and I long to hug you.
Though I cannot be there this year,
you are here with me,
in my mind and in my heart.
Yeah. Can we just pretend that we never talked about this?
Do I give them my best work? Really put forth an effort? I know you're supposed to try your best at everything you do, but I wasn't sure I wanted to give up ownership of something I was proud of. As a friend of mine who did some ghost writing put it, "I wrote the scene and then I thought, wow, that's pretty good. That may be the best scene I've ever written. I don't want this guy to put his name on my best scene. So I scaled it down a bit. And then I scaled it down again." Or something like that. I didn't write it down when he was talking to me.
So that's what I decided to do. I took some ideas that could turn into pretty decent poems, and I turned the volume waaaaaaay down.
Example (on love):
If you were a season,
you'd be the first day of summer.
If you were a city,
you'd be Paris in the spring.
If you were a holiday,
you'd be Christmas morning.
If you were a dream,
You'd be the one that came true.
I was pretty embarrassed by that, so I tempered it with this one (for encouragement):
Hero's Low
This is the part of the movie
when the hero can't see a way out.
His back is against the wall,
surrounded on all sides.
This is the point where he thinks
maybe I won't win the fight.
What if I give up, surrender?
Will it really be so bad?
But maybe the hero doesn't realize
all the people back home still believe in him.
They know he has a purpose.
All he has to do is steel himself,
and come out, guns blazing.
The cavalry is just over the ridge.
I didn't mind that one so much. Then I tried a Christmas poem:
I imagine coming home this Christmas,
turning down the block
and passing houses, brightly lit.
It is night. The street is silent,
the shopping over, the presents nestled
beneath the pine.
A wind stirs, prompting my excitement.
It swirls between the chimneys,
knocking snow to the white, pillowed ground.
I hum a carol as I walk up the pathway.
The smell of Christmas dinner in the air.
I move to ring the bell--
a delighted cry rings out.
Peering through the window,
there you all are,
gathered round the table,
piled high with the day's festivities.
I see your expressions of joy
and I long to hug you.
Though I cannot be there this year,
you are here with me,
in my mind and in my heart.
Yeah. Can we just pretend that we never talked about this?
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